


You Were in My Future As Far As I Could See

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Bad Ass Sara Lance, Banter and Snarking at each other is what Len and Barry do best, Barry and Caitlin did NOT sign up for this, Barry has had all he can take and he ain't gonna take no more, Barry is in deep with Baby Snart, Barry is so done, Barry is whipped for Baby Snart, Bonding, Bonding over toasted marshmallows, Breaking and Entering at all hours, Cabin getaways, Caitlin doesn't put up with anything, Caitlin helps to make it a little better, Caitlin is a secret softie, Earning one's keep through household chores, Embarrassing Misunderstandings (for Barry), Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode AU: s01e12 Last Refuge, Forced Separation, Heartbreak, Len has no chill, Len is a bad patient, Lots of bantering and snark between Barry and Len (big surprise), Mick has way too many feels and can't handle it, Mick is not a fan, Mick is not-so-secretly protective over the good doctor, Mick is worse as a caretaker, Multi, Nightmares, Nudity, Off-screen smut, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Pre-relationship (with the promise of something more in the future), Reference to Character Injury (non-fatal), References to Canon Events, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Shameless Ogling, Slow Burn, Teen!Mick Rory, Time Travel, Trying to explain time travel creates headaches, Unplanned date nights, baby!Leonard Snart, coming clean, discussion of past events, heavily implied sexual content, references to Episode s01e10 Revenge of the Rogues, references to Episode s02e03 Family of Rogues, shark week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “Barry, I am confident we can resolve this situation like civilized people.” Snart takes a step forward and neatly deposits his infant self into Barry’s folded arms, in such fashion that Barry is left with no alternative but to yield before the child goes straight to the floor, “You keep me tucked away safe and sound, and I don’t upload your sophomore yearbook photo to the world-wide web.”_____________________________________________________AU for "Last Refuge", wherein Leonard Snart and Mick Rory entrust the care of their younger selves to the last people anyone would expect - and who most certainly did NOT volunteer for the responsibility.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Leonard Snart, Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Leonard Snart & Lisa Snart (background - mentioned), Mick Rory & Caitlin Snow, Mick Rory/Caitlin Snow
Comments: 35
Kudos: 294





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> Spin-off idea from "You're the One I've Waited For (Now You're Home)", because envisioning Leonard Snart interacting (see also: bonding with) a infant version of his superhero nemesis was such a self-indulgent treat that I said to myself, "What would happen if Barry was charged with looking after the cherub-cheeked little bundle of innocence that was Baby Snart?" And then that turned into an adjacent question of how Caitlin would handle fourteen-year-old Mick Rory.
> 
> This is the end result. I hope you guys enjoy. I'll post the first chapter today, then two chapters every Saturday for the rest of August.
> 
> Title comes from “You Had Me From Hello” by Kenny Chesney.
> 
> Disclaimer: still own nothing. Back to playing in the sandbox. :)

Ten minutes, thirty-five seconds: that’s how long it takes before Mick Rory finds a match.

No, not the late-forties Mick Rory she met when he bodily hauled Caitlin away from her car, tied her to a chair (explosive included, free of charge), and ran her blood cold with a speech about fire that would put the most earnest and devoted of worshippers to shame before their chosen altar. This is the Mick Rory after fourteen years of life and the events of a single evening have left him an orphan – none of which would be her problem, except for someone named Rip Hunter and his master plan which, from what Caitlin has since gathered, has gone spectacularly off the rails.

Really, it sounds like a masterpiece of colossal miscalculations and erroneous judgment. It should be studied.

“We don’t trust Rip as far as we can throw him,” Snart and Rory showed up at S.T.A.R. Labs two hours ago and went straight into a bullet-point explanation that somehow circled back to documenting why Rory has a fourteen-year-old’s shoulder in a vice grip and Snart is holding a little blue-blanketed bundle of cherub cheeks, “and we would really prefer to _not_ be erased from the fabric of time. So, if you all would be so kind as to keep an eye on these two, we’ll be back to take them off your hands in good time.”

“Soon as we’re done cleanin’ up another of Hunter’s messes.” Rory adds, jerking the boy’s shoulder in an unnecessary show of force, then he shoves the kid forward and into a chair. There is some distinct psychological undercurrent at play here, that this boy is supposed to be Mick Rory’s younger version and he’s being manhandled like a prisoner of war.

Call her a bleeding heart, considering this kid grows up to be the same man who put a heat gun in her face, but Caitlin feels a twinge of sympathy. Barry…not so much.

“I refuse to be responsible for you.” It’s not strictly uncommon for her to see Barry dig his heels in (quite the contrary, actually) but it is the first time she has seen him dig the heels in about twelve feet deep and not even crack at how cute baby Snart is. And yes, entirely ignoring the man he becomes, the pint-sized Leonard Snart is something out of baby magazines and memes on worldscutestbaby.com.

“You owe me for Mardon and Jesse.” Because of course Snart would pull that card out.

“And I didn’t throw your ass back in prison for breaking into my house and stealing hot chocolate.” Barry shoots back in rapid succession, “We’re even.”

“Come now, Barry,” Caitlin is trying valiantly to keep one ear on the conversation while also keeping an eye on the match being cradled in a teenager’s hand (and why do they even have matches in the cortex? When was the last time they ever used a match in the cortex? Did someone light a candle in here? _Why are there matches in the cortex?!)_ and stroked like one might a cat, “you can’t honestly say no to a face like this.”

“Probably not,” so Barry _isn’t_ oblivious to the ridiculous amount of cute being nestled in Snart’s arms, “but I can say no to your face. NO.”

“It’s just for a little while.”

“Time passes differently on that ship of yours.” Barry crosses his arms tightly, “You say ‘just a little while’ and the next thing I know, I’m paying to send you to college. Absolutely not.”

Mini-Mick has now lit the match. Caitlin very quietly pushes loose papers off to the corner and into one tidy pile, as far away from the little flame as possible.

“Barry, I am confident we can resolve this situation like civilized people.” Snart takes a step forward and neatly deposits his infant self into Barry’s folded arms, in such fashion that Barry is left with no alternative but to yield before the child goes straight to the floor, “You keep me tucked away safe and sound, and I don’t upload your sophomore yearbook photo to the world-wide web.”

Barry’s face equally carries a look of abject horror and utmost betrayal, “You…wouldn’t…dare.”

“I knew we could handle it like grown-ups.” Snart _pats him on the head_ and jerks his head at Mick, “We’ll be back.”

“Hey you,” Rory growls at his younger self, who glares right back with all the unchecked defiance of youth against authority figures, “keep your paws to yourself. I find one hair outta place on the doc’s head, gonna kick your punk ass right up your throat.”

The threat might be chivalrous if not for the content – and that the adult has no right to make comment against the youth without walking himself to permanent residence in Hypocrite Ville.

The two walk out, with the air that they own the damn place, and Barry turns to face Caitlin with arms full of sleeping baby Snart and his face looking like he just swallowed a lemon.

“Trade you.” He says dryly.

“Not a chance.” Caitlin folds her arms to match Barry’s earlier stance, “I’ll take my chances with him.” She would feel a little guilty about addressing young Mick this way – except the kid is back to staring at a dwindling match and it’s obvious he neither hears nor cares what’s being said.

“Traitor.”

Caitlin lets herself smirk, “I give you two hours,” she purrs, wholly confident in every single word, “and that little thief-in-training will have you wrapped around his teeny fingers nine ways to Sunday.”

“Not a chance.” Barry huffs, a grumpy echo of her earlier assertion, then all-but stomps out of the cortex.

Come to think of it…make it one hour. Tops.

***

Caitlin’s apartment isn’t as much small as it is modest: a one bedroom unit with an open layout allowing full line-of-sight through the kitchen, dining area, and a rather spacious living room which – in addition to a few other amenities – ultimately sold her on the place. She knows the couch will be a little cramped, but young Mick doesn’t appear to take up too much space.

She smiles, just a little, to realize how much of a growth spurt the kid is preparing to experience.

“What’re you smiling about?” his dark eyes narrow suspiciously; he hasn’t moved from the far wall, arms tight across his chest, in the last half hour while she makes the couch into a bed and sets out fresh towels.

“Random thought. I have those now and then.” It almost warrants another smile to think how easy it is to talk to him, even when he’s giving attitude. Maybe because he hasn’t hit his full size and isn’t nearly as raw around the edges. Teenagers growling like wet cats, she seems to handle well enough. The adult version, volcanic and muscular and in love with the flame…different story.

“So what’s the deal with you and what’s-his-name? The jerk who threatened me?” after a moment’s pause, he drops onto the couch without once uncrossing his arms, “You’re his girl or something?”

“Hardly.” Caitlin fluffs a spare pillow and sets it on the armrest, “You hungry or you just want me to leave you alone?”

The look on his face answers that well enough. “Right.” She dusts her hands and nods briskly, “Sleep well.”

“You gonna lock your door?” the bitterness in his voice stops her mid-stride, “Wouldn’t want someone like me to just have free reign, would you?”

Caitlin is quiet for a time. A very long time, in fact. The ugliness twisting his young face and the bitterness, almost self-loathing, in his words is…difficult to comprehend. The Mick Rory she’s known, however reluctantly, is many things but he has never appeared wanting for self-image or an ego boost. He is unapologetic in every sense of the word. Aggressive. Ravenous. Hungry for life and all that is to be consumed in and through it. Raw and unchecked and terrifying because of it.

This boy glaring at her from the couch…is anything but.

“Sleep well, Mick.” She says, very softly, and closes her bedroom door. She doesn’t lock it.

***

Having to explain to Joe just why half Barry’s apartment has been converted into a nursery required elaborate fabrication and the use of a poker face which Barry knows is subpar on the best of days and just embarrassingly pathetic on the rest. Joe doesn’t entirely look like he buys it, and Barry breaks into a cold sweat with his brain going into overdrive – how could Joe possibly know this is the infant version of Leonard Snart, and how is he going to explain that—?

“Barry, I thought we established you can be honest with me.” Joe puts a heavy hand on Barry’s shoulder, and the reckless speed of his imagination screeches to a halt, replaced with profound confusion, “Of course, I thought we also discussed using proper protection, but I promised I wouldn’t judge you too harshly for it – as long as you really cared about her.”

Protection? Really cared about her? Who is ‘her’? Who—

Reality breaks over Barry’s head like a plate. Oh. _Oh._ _OH._

“Joe, that…no. That’s not. I didn’t…” he can only imagine how many different shades of red his face is showing off right now, “That’s not…he isn’t mine.”

Joe’s eyes immediately narrow in obvious displeasure. “So she’s one of _those_ girls?”

Oh sweet mother of Jesus… “No, no, no! It’s not like that at all!” now he’s sweating too…fantastic, “Joe, seriously, he isn’t mine. I mean, he _is_ , for a few weeks. I’m fostering him.”

The suspicious glare is wiped away in record time, replaced by relief and a bit of intrigue, “Barry,” but at least Joe sounds pleased, even impressed, “you didn’t tell me you were a foster parent.”

“He’s a special case.” Barry wrangles his very best grin, “Being so young – and very cute – they’re confident they can find him a perfect home in no time.”

From the crib, a polite little coo calls for attention. Inside, a pair of bright blue eyes look up, bleary from sleep, and small hands paw lightly at the air. Something flutters in Barry’s stomach as he reaches down to collect the small shape in his arms. So very small. Fragile, even. He suddenly experiences a sense of protectiveness over something so delicate and vulnerable – not entirely for the first time, over the past few days, but this morning marks the first time when he didn’t immediately snap out of it just by remembering who this baby is. Or, rather, will become.

Joe chuckles as a tiny hand bats awkwardly at Barry’s chest, “What’s his name?”

“Leo.” It feels like a betrayal, oddly enough – Barry hasn’t forgotten the way Snart visibly tightened, as though physically injured by Lewis calling him by that name – but there’s nothing he can do. Strictly speaking, ‘Leo’ isn’t a lie anymore than it is a complete revelation of the boy’s true name.

“Good strong name.” Joe reaches out and gently strokes a head of downy fluff, “Better keep Iris away as much as possible. Face like that, she’ll try to convince you to adopt the kid yourself just so she can play favorite auntie.”

“Duly noted.” This time, the smile isn’t disingenuous – though Barry is forced to admit most of the smile is prompted by the sight of Leo rolling to the left and squishing his face against Barry’s chest.

…He’s already in deep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry is in deep with little Leo. Caitlin and Mick start to make headway over mutual dislike of chores and shared love of cheeseburgers.

Being an only child, and a girl at that, Caitlin was not prepared for how much food is required to sustain a teenage boy on the daily. Her grocery bill has nearly doubled in the last week, and while this isn’t the worst thing in the world, she’s not this kid’s mother – or at least, she isn’t going to coddle him and keep house while he binges on television for hours on end.

“You want me to what?”

“This time of year, there are plenty of seasonal jobs looking to hire.” Caitlin smiles at him, perfectly serene in spite of the prominent scowl on Mick’s face, “You’re too young to work in most restaurants, but other people are willing to hire your age group for menial tasks. Yard labor. Dog-walking. You get the idea.”

Predictably, Mick folds his arms and locks his jaw. “Not happening. And you’re not my mom – you can’t make me.”

Temptation rises to address that statement with a firm reprimand on how, if his mom had done her job properly, he wouldn’t be so prickly about this – and then Caitlin stops the first word before it even leaves her mouth. In a fit of curiosity – and to calm Barry down after the whole debacle with Lewis had left him a complete mess of contradictory emotions – the two of them had delved deep into the recorded histories of Leonard Snart and Mick Rory. The end result was two-fold: Barry ran himself nearly into a coma on the treadmill, incensed at the unfairness and complete lack of justice when Snart needed it most, and Caitlin stared at newspaper clippings of the Rory house going up in flames for over an hour. A year ago, her first inclination would have been to place blame solely on young Rory’s shoulders – playing with flammable objects so recklessly! – but in that moment, all she could think was how unpredictable fire is, and how easily it can get out of control.

“You’re right. I’m not your mom.” Caitlin nods, folding hands around her coffee mug, “What I can do is put it this way: either you find a seasonal job in the neighborhood, or Barry will hire you at S.T.A.R. Labs for janitorial service, and you can earn your paycheck that way.”

The sour look only intensifies. Caitlin calmly lifts an eyebrow and tips her smile at him, “So which is it?”

***

The looks Barry gets as soon as the first detective enters his lab – with several more to follow – and finds Leo napping inside a carrier are for the ages. No doubt like Joe, conclusions are being reached left and right, and Barry’s only choice is to repeat the same excuse five thousand times until his mouth is dry.

“I think fostering is a wonderful idea.” Rob says; his presence, so calming and gentle in comparison to his husband’s brash mannerisms, is a welcome relief after the morning has been entirely wasted because Barry has to justify a baby’s presence in his lab rather than get any real work done, “I’ve been trying to convince David, but you know how stubborn he is.”

He wags a little rattle in front of Leo, who bops at it with a hand, “Between you and me,” Rob adds, “I think he’s just nervous. He wants to be the best father in the world, and he has the ridiculous notion that his job won’t let him do it.”

“Well, if anyone can convince him otherwise, it’s you.” Barry smiles with a backwards glance at how intently Leo is staring at the rattle.

It’s so easy to forget this baby will become the same man who would happily freeze Barry to the floor than have a civilized conversation.

***

The reality of how deep he’s in becomes readily apparent the first time a Flash-related emergency comes up. Nothing too serious – burning apartment complex on 8th and Meridian, no casualties – but Barry returns to the lab covered in soot and finds Cisco giving him a look over his Twizzler.

“What?”

“You’re in trouble…” Cisco sings it with a grin that makes Barry squirm. Caitlin, thankfully, chooses that moment to walk around the corner and swat Cisco around the shoulder.

“Don’t freak him out.” She scolds, then drags brown eyes over to Barry – now wearing a look of profound exasperation, “Leo was very upset when you weren’t there to feed him.”

Panic drops straight down his gut, “Is he okay??”

“Fine, fine.” Cisco unhelpfully supplies, “Cried himself to sleep, but you know…”

Caitlin smacks him again – this time upside the head. By then, Barry has beelined into the med bay (it’s not ideal for a nursery, but only temporary) to find Leo in his carrier looking very much like a kicked puppy. His blue eyes look up at the sound of footsteps, see Barry, and he immediately starts wriggling his little limbs. Being so new to the world, the movements are awkward and adorably so, but it’s the frantic little cooing noises that take hold of Barry’s heartstrings and yank unceremoniously.

“Hey, little man…” Barry crouches down and collects Leo out of the seat, “I’m sorry…did you think I wasn’t coming back?”

Graceless with neck muscles not yet developed, Leo plops his face hard into the red material of Barry’s suit, whining softly. “Shhh…it’s okay.” Barry rocks him in place, adjusting Leo’s head before the kid accidentally suffocates himself, with a hand rubbing circles through the soft cotton onesie, “It’s okay, buddy. I’m here. I got you.”

Behind him, the distinct sounds of a camera phone clicking one picture after another are unmistakable. _Thank you, Cisco._

***

“You know, this might be less unpleasant for you if you tried a better attitude.”

No doubt just to make a point, little Mick wrings out the mop head with suffocating force – all while glaring at her. The janitorial uniforms leftover in the basement were much too big and Caitlin wouldn’t hear of making him wear something that hadn’t been touched (or properly washed) in years. The alternative was a handful of thrift store purchases: faded denim and t-shirts, all of which can be easily washed and ultimately tossed out when the usefulness has been satisfied.

“Or,” Caitlin shrugs, “you can just be determined to hate the floors for needing to be mopped.”

“Easy for _you_ to make jokes, Princess.” He bites out with no small contempt; the bitterness has been redirected at her for days, quickly accumulating to weeks, and he makes no attempt to hide it from sun up to sun down, “I don’t see you scrubbing toilets and mopping up floors.”

“Well, not anymore.” She takes a couple dainty steps inside the med bay and hoists herself onto the bed, taking care to not walk through the areas he has already mopped. Terrible attitude aside, his work ethic isn’t entirely lacking: he grumbles and complains until the cows come home, but the bathrooms are spotless and the floors showroom new, “But my mom was too busy to remember to pay my tuition on time, so I put myself through college – and I wasn’t doing much more glamorous things than you. Cleaning bathrooms. Working in the student cafeteria. Stocking shelves in the library. Whatever paid the bills.”

Mick pauses mid-swipe, then looks up at her, “…your mom was too busy to pay for school?”

“Mom was too busy for a lot of things.” Caitlin says quietly. The moment is nudging towards uncomfortable territory – a place of vulnerability and raw emotion which she isn’t sure she wants to or is ready to go. The look on Mick’s face plainly reflects a similar sentiment.

“…You like burgers?” she says, neatly shifting the conversation to something mundane. Safe. Comfortable.

“Is the sky blue?” Mick deadpans.

She smiles, “Finish up with this room, and we’ll call it a night. Big Belly Burger is on me.”

For the first time since he was dropped on the proverbial doorstep, Mick smiles back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a period of tentative peace and tranquility, push comes to shove with Mick asking too many questions. Barry and Caitlin have no choice but to come clean.

It’s been almost two months when the nightmares start. Nothing dramatic or concerning at first: she hears tiny whimpers from the couch late at night and Mick’s eyes are rimmed red the next morning, like he didn’t sleep or woke up crying. Then it gets a little more concerning when he starts thrashing around – so loudly that it will wake her up from an otherwise sound sleep. He always looks exhausted the next morning, and the shadows under his eyes are becoming more prominent.

Everything comes to a head one night, when Caitlin is ripped unceremoniously out of a dreamless sleep by the sound of Mick simultaneously screaming and sobbing.

She doesn’t even bothering throwing a robe on over her pajamas – soft cotton pants and t-shirt – before she’s in the living room and fighting for some kind of purchase on Mick’s shoulders when he’s violently thrashing, fighting against an enemy only he can see.

“Mick! Mick, wake up! Mick!!”

The screams are incoherent at best, though she makes out snippets of ‘Wake up,’ and ‘Get out of the house!’ and – most prominently – ‘I’m sorry! I’m _sorry_!!!’ The latter quickly becomes the only audible vocalization, hammering out of his throat until his voice is raw.

“MICK!” she yells, unable to care about the neighbors when they’re probably already awake by now, “Mick, wake up! Wake up _now_!”

Whether her voice did the trick or he finally ripped himself out of the nightmare, she doesn’t know and doesn’t care. His eyes wrench open, visibly disoriented, before he finds her face in the soft glow of a single lamp. He slams against her without warning, arms winding with bruising intensity around her waist while his face presses into her clavicle. She can feel the growing dampness of tears long before she hears the first gut-wrenching sob.

With less than stellar timing, a knock comes from the front door, “Caitlin? Caitlin dear?” it’s Miss Finland from down the hall: retired schoolteacher with whom Caitlin has enjoyed several afternoons over tea discussing literature, “Is everything alright?”

No, everything is not alright. “It will be.” She answers instead, just because it isn’t entirely a lie, “I’m sorry for the disruption.”

“No fuss at all, dear.” The woman has the nature of a saint, “I’ll be by to check on you later this morning.”

Caitlin calls out a soft bit of gratitude, though the true relief comes when she hears the patter of departing footsteps and a door closing in the distance. Mick’s grip hasn’t loosened one bit. If anything, it got tighter when Miss Finland knocked at the door, as if he thought she would evaporate from his arms.

“Shh…it’s okay.” Caitlin whispers; her fingers thread tenderly through his brown hair, damp and cold with sweat, while she rocks him carefully, “I’ve got you, Mick…I’ve got you.”

“It was an accident.” His voice sounds completely wrecked, overused and raw, “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…and I ran. I ran and left them there and…and I just watched. It was beautiful and horrible and…” his fingers tighten in the cotton of her shirt, “…you’re going to send me away, aren’t you? I’m sick and you’re gonna lock me up.”

This time, it’s her arms which tighten around him while her cheek rests to his hair. Words fail her entirely. She won’t be the one to send him away, but knows he _will_ be sent away when the so-called Legends take him back to that horrible night. She knows about the years he will spend in and out of the foster system and juvenile detention before finally committing an arson so devastating that it will land him in prison with a five-year felony conviction.

But how does she explain any of that to the fourteen-year-old boy sobbing himself incoherent in her arms, clinging to her like she’s his only lifeline?

“I’m here now.” Caitlin finally whispers, “And I’ll be here when you wake up. And I’ll be here tomorrow. One day at a time, Mick…just take this one day at a time.”

Within a half hour, he’s cried himself to sleep. She joins him shortly thereafter with arms unmoved even in sleep.

***

The tension to follow Mick’s most traumatic nightmare to date lingers for three days. It hangs over them in the lab, swells oppressively inside the apartment, and makes the most basic daily functions seem like Olympic challenges. Mick avoids eye contact at all costs and visibly squirms to be in the same room with her longer than two minutes.

In short, she’s getting really tired of it.

“Okay,” she walks into the medical bay while he’s scrubbing down the window and folds her arms tight, “we need to talk.”

“Nothing to talk about.” Mick bites out; she can see a shameful flush crawling across the back of his neck, and his shoulders went stiff as soon as Caitlin opened her mouth.

“Really? Because my neighbors might disagree after being woken up at some ungodly hour of the morning.”

His hand clenches around the rag he’s using on the windowsill. “Then just send me away.”

Silence falls for an uncomfortable stretch, then Caitlin pushes out a breath and leans against the opposing wall, “…So that’s the game you’re choosing to play? Get yourself tossed away before you can get comfortable – maybe even let yourself feel happy and safe. Break whatever is being handed to you, just to prove you can’t have nice things.”

Mick turns in a sharp motion, eyes dark and angry – and yet, unmistakably, flooded with grief. “You think holding me when I wasn’t in my right mind makes us best friends? Means you know all about me?”

“I do know you, Mick Rory.” Caitlin answers, her tone soft and not rising to the hateful bait, “I know every documented step you’re going to take after the fire, and I know what path it will set you on.”

Surprise rattles him, just enough to break the mask of rage on his young face, “What…what are you…?”

“Yo! Caitlin!” Cisco’s voice calls from the main cortex, “Need a medical expert in the house!”

She can only imagine why. “Take a break – fifteen minutes – before you start on the bathrooms.” Caitlin says softly, then leaves Mick standing at the window with a heartbreaking look of utter confusion.

***

Even at three months old, Leo is still very new to the world – and yet he can’t seem to get enough of it. Saturday and Sunday mornings (baring extreme weather-related exceptions) have become the infant’s favorite times of the week, because these are the mornings when Barry dresses him in his weekend best (and, by the way, how do babies grow so fast in a handful of months?) and packs the stroller for a walk in the park.

The first time, Barry acted on impulse (or instinct…he’s not sure which one) with the intention of getting Leo some fresh air and external stimulation. Leo was only a couple weeks old and slept most of the walk, so Barry isn’t sure he got much of anything out of the trip. Barry, on the other hand, came home with five phone numbers shoved at him by female park-goers.

By five weeks, Leo was awake for over half the trip, and he was in rapture at the new world around him. What he was not in favor of, apparently, was being gawked at by strange women. He whined until Barry picked him up and then wouldn’t go back in the stroller.

Now, three months of life neatly tucked under his belt, Leo loves the park. Can’t get enough of it. He’s still very small – Barry, in a new-dad panic, beelined him to the pediatrician when it didn’t seem that Leo was putting on any weight despite three hearty meals a day, but was assured that Leo was in perfect health and that Barry should be very proud – and therefore won’t fit in the little playground swing. But he’s the perfect size for Barry to tuck in with one arm while he sits on the swing himself and rocks Leo to-and-fro. Leo loves it. Coos and giggles the whole time.

Barry would love it too, if their time wasn’t perpetually interrupted with young women cooing over his boy and then essentially dropping marriage proposals at Barry. He keeps moving the morning hour of their walk earlier and earlier, hoping to avoid as much foot traffic, but just shy of going out on the weekend at five in the morning, there’s just no getting around it.

The look of sheer adoration of Leo’s face, every time the kid looks up at him, makes it worth the while.

***

“He’s asking questions. Again.” Caitlin leans against the wall opposite where Barry is rocking Leo to sleep.

“How bad?”

“He found a newspaper. Doesn’t take long to note that the date isn’t exactly nineteen-ninety.”

Barry pauses, then pushes out a resigned sigh. “How do you want to do this?”

“Well, considering this Rip Hunter doesn’t seem to care about twisting the timeline into one gigantic mess for everyone else to clean up, why should we?” she pushes a hand through her hair, “…He’s already interacted with his adult self. I don’t see how keeping him in the dark helps a damn thing.”

Leo bats at Barry’s chest with a little whine of protest; Barry rubs a soothing hand over the baby’s side and starts rocking again. “Go get him. No time like the present.” It could be half a bad joke, but Barry’s tone is absent a hint of humor. Honestly, Caitlin is relieved that he’s taking this so seriously.

Mick comes in five minutes later, wiping his hands on a bit of frayed cloth, and lifts an eyebrow at Caitlin and Barry seated close together, facing the door, with Leo dozing in Barry’s arms. “…Why do I feel like I just got called into the principal’s office?”

“You want to know about this?” Caitlin holds up the newspaper, a single finger tapping near the printed date, “Then grab a seat.”

The explanation is long-winded even at its most basic level. She lets Barry take the lead on it, as the closest thing to an expert on time travel as they have on staff. By the time it’s over, she’s surprised Mick’s brain hasn’t completely exploded.

“So…that guy. The one who brought me here…” he licks his lips, “…That was me?”

“Forty-eight-year-old you.” Barry says softly; he’s kept his voice gentle whenever Mick interrupted for clarification or just to verbally proclaim that he’s getting a headache. Caitlin can’t help but think this might be the gentlest anyone has ever spoken to Mick, judging from the looks he kept giving Barry.

Mick shifts on the chair, pulling one knee up to his chest and locking fingers around the shin, “That’s what you meant,” he addresses Caitlin with an unreadable tone, “…you said you know every step I take…the path it sets me on…” he squirms and tightens the grip on his leg; when he looks up, his eyes are wet, “…What happens to me?”

“A lot.” Barry whispers; in his arms, Leo lolls his head to the side and drops it into the crook of Barry’s bicep, “Most of it isn’t good.”

Mick shuts his eyes and turns his face to the side. Caitlin gets up and sets a hand to his shoulder for whatever comfort that might provide. It isn’t much, but maybe for right now…it will be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six months. They knew it couldn't last.

It’s been almost six months. If he and Caitlin still have these kids by the end of the year, Barry isn’t giving them back. The timeline be damned, he’s raising Leonard Snart as his own and Rip Hunter can kiss it.

The idea to rent a little cabin in a woodland park was Caitlin’s idea: she and Barry need a vacation, Mick deserves a reward for a job well done around S.T.A.R. Labs, and Barry was going to explode if he had to field one more question from the precinct about when he was going to officially adopt little Leo.

(Cisco was invited and quickly turned the offer down. All expenses paid three-day trip in the woods with no access to technology…he asked if that was what purgatory felt like. Drama queen.)

The weather for their weekend trip couldn’t be more perfect: cool temperatures, a promise of rain that night, and a light breeze to rustle up the scent of pine. Leo is in awe as soon as they get out of the car and Mick seems to relax – at least a little.

Barry sets up his room with a little nursery for Leo. Caitlin made a half-hearted argument against it, but Barry is attached, can readily admit it, and three days sharing a bedroom isn’t going to permanently stunt Leo’s emotional growth. He has his own room at Barry’s apartment (sort of) and that should be good enough.

Mick chooses the room closest to the back porch. Caitlin is beginning to get the idea that he has underlying issues with closed spaces. Not to play psychologist, but she’s noticed he hates cleaning closets in the lab, leaves the bathroom door open at the apartment as often as he can get away with it, and now picks the room with the quickest exit available. She wonders if it isn’t claustrophobia – or a close relative thereof.

They find the linen closet stocked with plenty of extra blankets and pillows. Barry takes an extra of each in case he or Leo get chilly during the night. The cold doesn’t entirely bother Caitlin, never has, which leaves Mick to pilfer the rest and create a nest in his room. The images invoked, just to see him arranging everything just-so on the bed, tugs a smile at Caitlin’s mouth before she quietly steps away to leave him be.

They stock the cabinets and refrigerator with enough food to feed Barry and Mick and also have something leftover for Caitlin when the boys are finished. For Leo, Caitlin fills one cabinet with his favorite jarred food and clean bottles for his water and morning juice. Everything is set for three days away from the city. Perfect.

***

“Hey,” Caitlin lightly raps on the door; Mick’s eyes widen a little – she’s not entirely sure if it’s the fact that she’s paying him a visit at nine o’clock at night, or if there is something provocative about soft blue cotton pants and a white long-sleeved top to match – and he sits up from where he was staring up at the ceiling, “you tired?”

“No.”

“Good.” she adjusts the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and nods towards to the back door, “Grab a blanket and your shoes. Meet you outside.”

His confusion fades as soon as he steps outside and finds Caitlin settled in a chair. Dark eyes widen, enraptured, at the flames crackling merrily in the fire pit. A second chair has been pulled up to the other side in obvious invitation, and Mick carefully sinks down with fingers twisting nervously in the blanket. “What is this?”

In place of words, Caitlin first sets a skewer in his lap, then hands out a jumbo bag of equally large marshmallows. Realization dawns with a shy grin that creeps across his face. “Really?”

“Perfect weather for it, no?” Caitlin smiles as he neatly spears a marshmallow at the end of his skewer and holds it with expert skill over the flames. This definitely isn’t his first time.

“Yeah.”

A comfortable silence falls between them: only the low crackle of fire and, in the distance, the rustle of nighttime animals moving about in their element. It takes Caitlin a couple times to fully get the hang of how to properly toast a marshmallow (although, to be fair, even the over-cooked ones are still pretty tasty with enough chocolate added), and her smile only grows wider every time Mick takes it upon himself to be her tutor on the subject.

“…Can I ask you something?” Mick murmurs, after a long stretch of nothing between them. Caitlin is licking her fingers clean and lifts a curious eyebrow at the question, though it takes him a few seconds more before he actually asks, “…How do we meet? You know…down the road? Whenever it happens?”

She huffs softly and wipes her hands clean with a paper towel, “You kidnap me, tie me to a chair, and threaten to burn my face off just so you can see ‘the real me’.”

Mick groans and sinks deeper into the chair with a hand running over his face, “Seriously? I’m usually smooth with girls.”

“Yeah…I think by the time you and I meet, you’ve stopped caring about being smooth.” Her easy smile seems to make him feel a little better – as much as possible, anyway, “I will say…you are unapologetically honest. Real, in every possible way.”

“Real crazy?” he mutters, poking at the fire with a little twig.

“That’s for a therapist to determine.” Caitlin smiles softly; the wind gently rustles her curls loose around the face and brings a sweet aroma of pine with it, “But that aside, for whatever you become, Mick…you are the most honest person I have ever met. And that…isn’t a bad thing.”

“Have a feeling some people might disagree.”

She considers him for a minute or two, then sits up to rest elbows on her lap, “Mick, I need you to listen to me, okay?” he doesn’t look up, but gives a little nod which she counts as good enough to continue, “You’re going to go through a lot in only a few short years. But one day, when you’re in juvenile detention, you’re going to meet a kid named Leonard Snart. And he is going to become your partner, your best friend, and the closest thing you will have to family for the next thirty years. Even when you fight and fall out with each other, you will keep coming back together because that is how strong your bond is. And there is nothing and no one in this world that can separate you from each other.”

Her hand reaches across the fire pit to rest lightly at his arm, “There is someone in this world who is going to stick with you for over _thirty years_ , Mick…you just need to wait a little while to find him.”

A single tear drips down his cheek before Mick scrubs it away with a flustered motion. “…Would you?”

“Hmm?”

“If we had met sooner – or later, whatever…would you have been that person for me?”

“…I don’t know.” Sugar-coated lies, after all, are the quickest way to erect walls with this boy, and it simply isn’t Caitlin’s style to be anything less than brutally honest. As a girl, this little trait didn’t make her very popular with peers. Mick seems to appreciate it. A lot. “I would like to think I would have been.”

“But you can’t be, now.” He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes, “Because I can’t stay here, right?”

She opens her mouth to say…something. And then he lifts his head, face suddenly cast into the full glow of low flame, and her throat locks up to see how wet his cheeks are. How wet his eyes are. How…how young and fragile he looks, almost more so in this moment than he did on her couch, ripped out of a nightmare and sobbing into her chest for salvation. Vulnerable. Broken. Nothing like the man he will become…

…or maybe she’s wrong. Maybe under his volcanic masculinity, blazing temper, raw honesty, and shameless hunger for life, Mick Rory has always been that fourteen-year-old boy crying in the dark for something he would never have.

Without a word, Caitlin gently opens the folds of her blanket in silent invitation. Slowly, eyes wide and terrified, Mick nearly crawls from his chair to hers, clearly on guard for any sign this is some sort of sick joke. She holds his gaze without a blink, no spoken assurances lest they destroy the fragility of this moment, until he has crept into the chair and found a place to rest curled around her with the blanket draped securely to keep out the evening chill.

***

If Mick is going to be here a little longer – and Caitlin assumes so, since they are now approaching seven months without a word to the contrary – he should be kept up to speed with his schooling. She doesn’t like the thought of putting him in a class only to rip him out at the last minute, but perhaps an online option would be beneficial. She knows the adult version never finished high school, just like his partner, but is by no means an idiot. With a different program to utilize and some better mentoring on the subjects, Mick might even come to enjoy school.

The idea never takes off the ground. The very same day as Caitlin starts researching the options, Sara Lance walks into S.T.A.R. Labs.

“Hope they didn’t give you any trouble.” She says; there’s an obvious gash across her right cheek in the early stages of healing.

“Not at all.” Barry says, holding Leo protectively to his chest, and looks behind her in a pointed gesture, “Where are Snart and Rory?”

Sara drops her gaze and clears her throat, “…Snart got banged up pretty bad. He’s recovering in the med bay. Gideon says he’ll be fine,” she quickly adds, no doubt reading the look on Barry’s face too well, “but he needs time. Mick refused to leave him. Punched out Ray when the point was pushed and almost broke his jaw. Rip asked me to pick up the mini versions – time for them to go home.”

“Hey, Caitlin, I finished the—” initially sounding very much in a good mood before he rounded the corner, Mick stops, both mid-sentence and mid-step, at Sara in the cortex; without a drop of subtlety, he beelines to Caitlin’s side, “What is she doing here?”

“I’m here to take you and the little guy back home.” Sara smiles, “I know this has been really confusing but—”

“No. I don’t wanna go back.” Mick grips Caitlin’s hand, “I wanna stay here. Please.”

“Hey,” she cups his face tenderly with a weak smile, “you know this isn’t goodbye. I’ll see you again.”

“I don’t want it to be that way! I want to do better!” he grips her hands in place, eyes pleading louder than his words ever could, “Don’t send me away!”

“Mick…” Barry gently rubs his shoulder, “We’re not sending you away. We’re sending you home – we talked about this.”

“This _is_ my home!” Mick nearly sobs on the last word, and Caitlin thinks it would just be less painful if someone stuck a knife in her chest than to hear that out of his mouth.

“Please tell me you guys didn’t—” Sara stops at the icy glare Barry throws over his shoulder, then clears her throat, “Okay…Mick, please. We have to go. It’s really important.”

“Look at me,” Caitlin whispers, tipping his chin back with a tender hold, “I will see you again. Bad first impressions or otherwise, I will be waiting for you.”

Time must really be of the essence now, because Sara collects Leo from Barry’s arms – Barry doesn’t hand the little one over with any kind of agreeable demeanor, and Leo immediately starts crying and reaching for Barry in a way that visibly cuts to the core – and gently coaxes Mick towards the door. Mick takes a few steps, heavy and with head bowed, then suddenly stops and runs back to throw arms around Caitlin’s waist with a bruising grip.

She feels the words spoken into her shoulder more than hears them, and it’s all she can do to not break apart entirely as Mick gives her one final look, then follows Sara down the hall. Leo’s cries carry long after they disappear from view, and Caitlin doesn’t catch Barry in time before he hits the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies for the angst in this chapter. It hurt me to write as much it hurt you to read. :(


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mick has a come-to-Jesus with his younger self. Then, after Snart and Rory's return to Central City involves a return to form, Barry has had enough.

Were the doors of a different construct, Sara would have kicked Snart’s down just for good measure. “Your mini self,” she says – not to Snart, who hasn’t been capable of movement beyond bathroom breaks and slow pacing around his room for two days, but to Mick who has designated himself caretaker and is dangerously close to being smothered in his sleep by the so-called patient, “is refusing to take the amnesia pill.”

“Shove it up his ass and be done with it.” Mick grunts, eyes for the television mounted on the far wall. Sara knows he doesn’t give a damn about Shark Week, but he’s half the reason Snart spent the better part of a week in the med bay and therefore his partner calls the shots on what they watch. Personally, Sara is convinced he’s only interested in any shots of women in bikinis or skin-tight diving suits.

“Let me phrase it differently,” Sara answers, “go talk to him, or I’ll be the one shoving something up _your_ ass.”

“I’m busy.”

“Mick,” Snart clicks the ‘k’ in the back of his throat, “in the last week I have seen more of you than a human being should ever be forced to see. Now do as she says, or I swear to God I will shoot you with the cold gun.”

“Traitor…” Mick growls, throwing his partner a withering look, then stomps out of the room with the delicacy of an elephant herd. Never one to waste a perfectly good opportunity, Sara then tosses herself in the empty chair and helps herself to one of the unopened beers.

***

“Take the damn pill.”

“No.” the dark eyes glaring back at him are definitely Mick’s own: stubborn as a jackass, hot with anger, and not blinking in the face of authority figures, “And you can’t make me.”

“Wanna test that theory?”

Mick would be lying if he wasn’t a little impressed by the way his younger version jerks his chin in a haughty gesture and folds arms over his chest, “Go ahead and try. But I won’t take it. I won’t forget _her_.”

That part throws him hard for a loop. The doctor – pure-as-white Caitlin Snow – bonding with this punk? Since when does she have a bleeding heart with budding little psychopaths?

He blinks and sees the younger’s mouth still moving. Oh. Kid hasn’t shut up yet.

“…I may not take a different path from you,” and isn’t that just a delight – that the kid knows the score around here? “but I won’t do it forgetting about her.”

Rip’s gonna have a field day with this one. Sending the kid back to his own time knowing all those dirty little details about the future that could fuck the timeline and all that crap…Mick is a little surprised Snow spilled the beans. Would’ve pegged her for the follow-to-the-letter rule person.

“She makes me want to do better.” The kid says, standing at the window and staring at nothing (meaning, there’s nothing to see), “Try to be better. Maybe I won’t be, but at least I can become you knowing there was still someone, at some point, who thought I could do better.”

Mick drops his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t like this. Not only is the kid’s rambling churning up some touchy-feely crap inside Mick’s chest, but memories are staring to pop up at the surface. Like bubbles in beer foam. Nightmares – and being held close while he cried it out. Breaking his back doing an honest day’s work – and spending the night on a couch with a bowl of popcorn between himself and Snow. The doctor in her pajamas (nothing like the fantasies Mick may or may not have entertained over the years, but whatever) with a blanket and the radiant beauty of a fire dancing merrily while they toast marshmallows.

Memories of a life he didn’t live…until he did. And nothing compares to the gut-punch that is the most recent—

_“I love you.”_ A confession spoken where no one can hear but the person it was meant for, and the feather brush of a kiss to his forehead. The scent of coconut body wash, as natural as anything, makes his mouth water.

“Look,” Mick grunts, “…make sure you fake it. Don’t need the captain to put my ass in a sling for this.”

A tiny smirk tugs his younger’s mouth up, before he turns and delivers a pretty damn good look of wide-eyed innocence, “For what?”

“Atta boy.” Mick nods, then beelines to the kitchen for another beer.

***

_One week later:_

“Well, apparently Cold made a full recovery,” Cisco announces, strolling into the cortex with an orange soda in one hand, “because guess who just hit the Diamond Emporium on Twelfth and Charleston?”

Caitlin lifts an eyebrow, mostly at the borderline gleeful tone Cisco is using, then drags her eyes across the room to where Barry just came out freshly showered after a two-hour run on the treadmill. He pauses in the middle of toweling his hair dry, then slowly bunches the white fabric between his hands and drops it in the laundry bag.

“The cops can handle it.”

Cisco almost drops his soda, “What? Dude, you always take care of Cold and Heatwave when they pull a job. Like, the cops just expect it now.”

“That’s their problem, not mine.”

The tone obviously gets to Cisco, because he falters with any sort of continued protest and instead nibbles his lower lip before softly asking, “Can you at least tell me why?”

Barry looks at them, and Caitlin feels a lump in her throat at the dead look in green eyes. Dead. Hollow. Broken.

“I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.” He whispers, then walks out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry really should know by now: Leonard Snart hates to be ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said updates would come on Saturday, but I'm just too excited to give you guys the last couple chapters. So - here you go! Happy Friday!!

It’s two o’clock in the morning. Most people are sleeping or, barring the ability to get any rest, might be reading a book. Barry is neither: he tossed and turned for hours in his bed before abandoning any attempt at sleep. Now he’s basking in a hot bath, steam still curling in the air and painting a hazy fog over the bathroom mirror, and couldn’t be more relaxed. Yes. This is exactly what he needed. A long hot bath to just let the tension out of his body, and when it’s over and the water has run cold, he’ll be ready to fall face-first in his bed and—

The bathroom door is nearly kicked off its hinges, and Leonard Snart’s shape – made to look even bigger with that goddamn parka – fills the doorway, “ _Where_ were you tonight??”

“What the HELL, Snart?!” Barry snaps, all sense of relaxation unceremoniously tossed out the window, “I am in _my_ apartment, in _my_ bathroom – in my _bathtub_ !! And how did you even—never mind. Forget it. Just…get out of my apartment!”

“NO.” petulant as he’s ever been, Snart folds his arms tight and glares at Barry, looking very much like a child who was just told he couldn’t have dessert, “It was the goddamn Diamond Emporium, Barry! Did I have to put a big red bow on that job to make it _more_ gift-wrapped for you??”

“Attention, all – here’s an important news flash,” yes, Barry is being equally bratty in his delivery but right now couldn’t give a flying flip, “I am not obligated to show up every time you and your partner get an inspiration – especially when _you_ got the bright idea to play hero on a time ship for almost a year!”

“And now we’re back.”

“Welcome home. Get out of my apartment.”

“Damn it, Barry – I almost died saving Mick’s stubborn ass.” He leans hard against the doorframe and Barry has a brief fantasy about throwing the man’s own stubborn ass out the bathroom window, “Is it so much to ask for a little return to normalcy after all that?”

“My life does not revolve around you, Snart.” That’s only a complete lie – or at least it is after the last six months spent raising the infant version of the insufferable jackass standing in front of him, “I may be ready to start indulging your massive ego in another week or so, but until then _get out of my apartment_.”

“Oh…well. My sincere apologies.” The sarcasm is just dripping off the words now, “Shall I reimburse the babysitter – or whoever else you handed my infant self off to? After all, your life _doesn’t revolve around me_ and therefore it was definitely too much to expect you would _lower_ yourself to show _any_ kind of care or concern for me in any form or stage of life.”

He's being baited. Barry knows he’s being baited. And he seizes the bait with tooth and claw like a starving dog.

“I spent the last _six months_ raising you!” Barry surges out of the bathtub and probably covers half the floor with water in the process, “I was there when you said your first word. I was there when you started to crawl well before all the books said a baby should start crawling. I had people asking me left and right when I was going to adopt you. So don’t march your ungrateful ass inside my apartment talking about how I don’t give a damn about you and just handed you off to some stranger because I couldn’t be bothered! I _changed your diapers_ , you pun-slinging, cold-obsessed, insufferable egotist!!”

In the moment he stops to take a breath, a slightly cool breeze passes over his skin…and if that wasn’t enough to help him remember the reality of his situation, the look on Snart’s face certainly is.

“Would you like a towel?” the man looks like he’s summoning every last drop of willpower to not smirk at Barry standing there, naked and dripping wet.

“…No.” In a cooler mindset, Barry would be mortified and babbling before leaping into five towels, but right now he’s running hot and having fantasies about putting Snart’s teeth in the back of his throat, “You come into my bathroom, you and your delicate sensibilities can just deal with being offended.”

Snart doesn’t look remotely offended. He looks…other things, but offended isn’t one of them. Barry does his best to calmly ignore the obvious way the older man is following his movements out of the tub, bending down to grab a spare towel and mop up the floor, and finally to dry himself off with a second towel and wrap it around his waist.

He's ninety-nine percent sure that Snart tipped his head to the side when Barry pushed past him to leave the bathroom, and the only reason Barry knows that a person would do that is to check out the other person’s ass. Jerk.

“Did you shower with me too, Barry?” Snart asks, following Barry without invitation into his bedroom. There’s an even bigger window here that Barry could throw the man out of.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Barry rummages through his drawers for a clean pair of boxers, determinedly ignoring the way he knows Snart is still helping himself to an eyeful, “You loved it. Just like you loved going to the park, and bedtime stories, and coming with me to work. By the way, congratulations – the entire CCPD voted you ‘world’s cutest baby’.”

“I’m touched.” The deadpan almost makes Barry smile before he bites it back. No smiling. He’s still pissed at the jerk who broke into his apartment and ruined a perfectly good bath. “Hard to believe they associated me with the word ‘cute’.”

“They didn’t associate _you_ with the word.” He retorts, shucking the towel off and – just to be a cheeky brat – making a show of sliding the dark blue boxers up his legs; he can’t swear to it, but he thought he saw Snart’s fingers twitch against his sleeve, “They associated baby Leo with the word. Like, his picture is next to the word in the dictionary.”

“…Leo?”

“Would you rather I had named you ‘Bob’?” Barry picks up the damp towel, hangs it close to the window to dry, and faces Snart with an amazing lack of shame for being half-naked in front of his enemy, “Or perhaps ‘Teddy’? Maybe ‘Michelangelo’ or ‘Donatello’ – since you’re such a patron of the classics.”

“I will freeze you to the floor if you don’t stop talking right now.”

“My apartment, my rules. You don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Or…” there’s always an ‘or’ with this jackass, and Barry is getting sick of it, “I can find something more productive for you to do with your mouth.”

That really should have snapped Barry out of his mood, crashed him back to reality, and beaten him into coherency before he does something exceptionally stupid. It really…really should have.

…it does a halfway decent job, but not all the way, because Barry steps right into the other man’s space without a single blink at the way Snart’s eyes immediately drop past his waistline.

“I’m not doing this anymore.” Barry says quietly, “Dealing with you as an adult is one thing, but you left your newborn self with me. Vulnerable. Fragile. Helpless. I rocked you to sleep every night. I woke up to find you waiting for me in your crib. Every time we went to the park and I was propositioned by half a dozen women – because apparently being a single guy with a baby is how you get dates in this world – you would bury your face in my chest and cling to me until they all went away. Like you didn’t want anyone or anything coming between us. You looked at me like I was your entire world and you couldn’t imagine wanting anything else. My name was your first word, damn it! _My_ name. Six months of this…almost seven…and for what? So Sara could just show up and take you away from me? You cried for me the entire time she was walking out of the lab, Snart! Do you have _any_ idea what that felt like? What that did to me? And now you just show up and want to pick up like everything is exactly as it was – but it’s not. It _can’t_ be, so cut the crap and stop expecting me to just go along with everything just because you and Rory got bored!”

It isn’t often that he has the success of shutting the man up for more than five seconds, but apparently today is a special occasion, because it’s a full (and rather awkward) five minutes before Snart actually speaks again. All the while, Barry is starting to feel a little exposed, like the initial rush is wearing off and he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that he’s standing half-naked within a foot of the man who has the cold gun visibly strapped to his thigh.

“So you got a taste of the one version of me that’s capable of real emotion.” Snart’s voice has lost its usual edge, and he isn’t meeting Barry’s eye anymore, “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“…Is that what this all comes down to? You think you’re incapable of emotion? That you left all that behind in childhood?”

“And believe me,” Snart’s eyes snap back to Barry’s face, “it was short-lived in childhood. The old man made a point to beat it out of me every chance he could.”

“Cut the crap, Leonard.” He doesn’t care if the first name thing is overstepping the boundary, “I’ve seen you with Lisa. I’ve seen you willing to walk barefoot through hell when she was in danger. There’s almost nothing in this world she could ask for that you wouldn’t hand over in half a second. You’re not some emotionless monster.”

“Is this going to turn into another ‘there’s good in you’ speech?” Snart—Leonard gives him an unimpressed glare, “Because I’ve had all I can take of you do-gooder types – especially since most of them almost got Mick and I killed multiple times over this little trip.”

“You could have avoided that by not going in the first place, idiot.”

“Oh, is _that_ what this is about for you? That I left and broke your fragile little heart?” there’s something distinctly derisive about the smirk and especially the tone of voice, and it really pisses Barry off, “How insensitive of me.”

The sound of Leonard’s back slamming into the wall probably woke up a couple neighbors. Barry doesn’t care. It’s Christmas all over again, only this time there’s only the empty walls of his bedroom and a cool breeze rustling through the open window, but his hands are once again tight in Leonard’s parka, their bodies dangerously close together, and their faces closer still. Barry can hear the harshness of his breaths punching out of his lungs and feels the same from the other man.

He had plenty of things to say, but not a single one is making its way to the surface. Instead, the moment feels suspended between them and their locked eyes are communicating more than words probably could right now.

“No audience this time, Barry.” Leonard finally speaks; his voice is lower than before, and not filled with his usual cocky swagger, “How’s this going to play out now?”

So Barry isn’t the only one remembering the last time they were in this position. He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or…something else.

“Do not,” Barry whispers, each word clawing through the knot of emotion at the back of his throat, “ _ever_ leave me again.”

Leonard quietly lifts his eyebrows, no doubt at the word choice. Barry doesn’t even blink in the face of the man’s surprise. He spent six months willing to walk into traffic for the infant version, and every moment spent with Leonard Snart in a vulnerable stage of life only dragged every conflicting emotion Barry ever had for the man to the surface until he couldn’t see straight.

A gloved hand ghosts his hip, right above the waistband, then drags an exploratory path up Barry’s naked waist. “What exactly is it we’re doing here, Barry?” the man’s voice is ragged, unquestionably hungry, and Barry slowly licks his lips at the sound.

“Right now,” he whispers, acutely aware of every upward drag of those fingers, “we’re probably wake up the rest of my neighbors. After that…we’ll figure it out.”

The responsive curve of Leonard’s mouth isn’t quite a smile, but it’s not entirely a smirk. “Okay.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caitlin, Mick, and the things still to come.

The bewildering looks Caitlin earns all the way down the hall from neighbors, between the elevator and her apartment door, go from confusing to understandable when she finally reaches the door and finds Mick Rory – the forty-year version – stretched along the hallway like he owns it. She doubts he’s been courteous enough to move his legs for passerby, and wonders how many have tripped over the muscular limbs.

“Evening, Mick,” she says with perfectly casual tone, “you need something?”

Eternally a one-track mind, his dark eyes hone on the bags she’s carrying, “Got anything good in there?”

“Ice cream, brownies, and cheap beer.” Caitlin steps over him, keys in hand, and opens the door, “Anything that might interest you?”

“What’re the odds you got a pizza hiding in there?”

“Already ordered and on its way.” She pops the door open with her hip, “Hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

“Now you’re just sweet-talkin’ me.” He hoists himself off the floor, catches the door with one hand before it can close on her, then follows into the apartment. She lets herself be briefly amused that he didn’t just pop the lock and invite himself in. It suggests, however small, a level of respect for her personal space that she certainly didn’t expect.

“Where’s your partner?” she sets her bags down and leaves Mick to close and lock the door behind them.

“Ripping into Red about not showin’ tonight.” Mick rolls his eyes, though she can tell his greater attention is for her interior décor, “Getting shot in the ass doesn’t stop him, but being snubbed by the kid just won’t stand.”

Caitlin pauses for a solid thirty seconds in putting the groceries away, “…Was he actually shot in the ass?”

“Close enough.” He makes a vague gesture to his lower back, which she takes as a generalization of where the injury actually occurred and considers her curiosity sated. She puts three of the beers in the freezer for a quick chill, then puts the rest inside the fridge.

“Nice place you got here, Snow.” Mick finally pronounces, in such a way that she actually believes the praise is genuine, “Cozy. Not too flashy.”

“Well, simple and sensible are what I’m known for.” The delivery comes with a little sarcasm; nothing like mentoring and nurturing the fourteen-year-old version of Mick Rory, serial arsonist, to chaff at her smooth edges and leave her a little rougher, a little less diplomatic, and apparently less uptight because she just let a (wanted?) criminal into her apartment like this was a planned date.

Which it wasn’t. Entirely. She might have anticipated, or hoped for, his visit – but no one can confirm it.

“No indulgence, huh?” he takes a seat at her breakfast bar after shrugging out of his coat.

“None that I keep in the public view.”

The throwaway comment is strictly in reference to the blue negligee she bought once, entranced by the vibrant shade and the silken texture, and then shoved to the back of her drawer in pure shame. All the same, she now has Mick’s undivided attention on the subject.

“So what’s a guy gotta do for the private show?”

The doorbell saves her from an immediate answer, but she knows better than to expect Mick will drop it so easily, especially when she can feel his eyes on her the entire journey to and from the door. Just to drag it out and test his patience, she makes a show of putting the pizza on the counter, fishing out the plates, the utensils, and so on. Only after she makes the first cut into the pie does she answer with a coy, “Not too many are looking for the private view.”

Admittedly, that’s as much a self-depreciating remark as it is a dangling carrot: she’s the smart one, not the pretty one, not the one guys ask on dates and fight among themselves for a shot at her, but not one bit of her chaste history seems to matter right now because she has this man staring in rapt attention as if she is the most exquisite and desirable woman in the world.

May she never truly speak ill of the dead, of a love lost and buried, but even Ronnie never looked at her this way.

“That tells me,” Mick’s voice is a low rumble stirring heat in her belly, “there’s even more jackasses in this world than I thought.”

She feels her cheeks flush with heat and hides a shy smile in the way she turns and retrieves a pair of beers from the freezer. Mick accepts his, but has yet to look away from her even as he pops the cap and takes a long drink from the bottle.

“I’ll refrain from agreeing or disputing that assessment.” Caitlin finally says, not without a prim little tone that is entirely betrayed by the smirk peeking around the rim of her own bottle. “It would be improper of me.”

“Think I’d like to see just how improper you can get, Snowflake.”

The nickname, ironically, passes a little shiver across her skin. “Would you, Mister Rory?”

His smirk, barely concealed by another drink, answers that well enough. “Rather bold for the first date, don’t you think?” she slides a plate, filled with two slices, across the ceramic countertop to his waiting hand.

“Never been one for delayed gratification.” She tucks away a little grin that he doesn’t even dispute the notion that this is, in fact, a date between them. “See something I like, I go for it. I strike out, I strike out. But I always want a turn at bat.”

“Well,” she daintily cleans her mouth and leans forward on the counter, “sometimes you don’t get what you want.”

“This is true.” He doesn’t even bat an eye at the possibility, “And sometimes I get exactly what I want.”

“And the rest of the time, you get what you weren’t expecting.” Caitlin takes another bite of pizza, “You’re not fooling me, Mick…I know why you’re here. You have his memories now. Your younger self.”

Again, Mick doesn’t bat an eye. Let it never be questioned that he rolls with the punches. “Never expected you’d cozy up with a punk like that.”

“I wouldn’t.” she answers simply, “And he wasn’t a punk.”

“Sure about that?”

“As sure as I am that the man he became is more than he tries to appear.” Her eyes betray her, dropping to his mouth briefly before flicking back to his face. “Much…much more.”

“And none of those other things are flattering, Snow. Trust me.”

She shrugs, “Maybe we can work on that.”

His eyebrows lift in clear interest – maybe mixed with a little curiosity and…something else – as he finishes off the beer with a satisfied sound, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, “After all…we’ve got time.”

All the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! See you next time!! :)


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